Old Bilbo's Gone Cracked
by Cathelm
Summary: The tale of how Elrond deals with a forgetful old hobbit who just won't go away.


Old Bilbo's Gone Cracked: The tale of how Elrond deals with a forgetful old hobbit who just won't go away.  
--Here begins the journal of Elrond Halfelven of Rivendell. Third Age, Year 3018. February the Third. This morning I went walking in the gardens and. . .--  
Oh great. An elvenlord with writer's block. If anyone finds out, I'm certain I shall be the laugh of this age. Elves are supposed to be superior in the arts. Sigh. We halfelven don't get it all good. Anyways, if it weren't for the dear Bilbo Baggins I wouldn't be writing at all. He's been nagging me to start a diary for the past thirty years.  
  
--The sky was blue, the grass was green, the flowers were red, purple, yellow, blue, green, orange, magenta, tickle-me-pink. . .--  
  
I give up. This writing thing just isn't for me. But Bilbo will lecture me on the virtues of recording daily activities until he dies if I don't continue. Perhaps a change of scenery will help. I have heard that writing in one's own room will spark some ideas. I don't see any good in it, but maybe there's more virtue in a bedchamber for the mortal race.  
  
And so I pick up my notebook and walk down the hall to my chamber room. I sit down by the window in my favorite armchair and begin to write.  
--My Arwen has been rather mournful lately. I wonder if she's still troubling over little Estel.--  
Hm. Seems to be working.  
  
--I do not see why she wants to stay with him in this war- torn land. It seems an easy choice: to live with sorrow and death in Middle Earth, or to live forever in a land where there are flowers of red, purple, yellow, blue, green, orange, magenta. . .--  
  
"Frodo, get out of the bathroom!"  
  
I whirl around to face the source of the voice and twist right out of my chair. A nice smacking sound fills my ears as my face hits the floor. Note to self: Elves are supposed to be graceful.  
  
"For the last time, Frodo, there are no dragons under your bed!"  
  
Now I have writer's block, a high-and-mighty headache, and a hobbit in my bed. Just my luck.  
  
For a hobbit it was: a halfling of the Shire in the west, and the only one currently staying at Rivendell, of which I am very thankful.  
  
I throw back the bedsheets to reveal the sleepy little fellow. He snorts and rolls over, covering his head; apparently he was having some sort of hobbitish nightmare. I have heard he single-handedly raised one of the children of his folk. Knowing how their supposedly wise elders acted, I don't know why he brought such trauma unto himself.  
  
"Mr. Baggins, would you mind getting out of my bed?" said I.  
  
Bilbo blinked and rolled to face me. " Why if it isn't my good lad Elrond!" he exclaimed, reaching up to pat my head. "Nice to see you this morning!"  
  
I shake my head at the old hobbit. "On the first thought, I'm a good five thousand years older than you," I said, my face wrinkling into a smile. "On the second, it's past three in the afternoon, and high time you got out of bed. My bed, that is."  
  
Bilbo gasped and shot up. "Past three?! I've almost missed tea time!" He swung his legs out of bed and hopped to the floor. I had to jump out of the way as he made for the door, tottering to and fro on his stiff limbs. "Would you care to join me?" he asked. Without waiting for a reply he turned at the hall and made straight for the kitchens.  
  
I smiled and shook my head again; if there's one thing that hobbit could keep his mind on for more than a moment, it's food. And lots of it, too. Our kitchens have been much busier since Bilbo arrived.  
  
I snatched my journal off the windowsill and hurried after the old halfling. He may not look like he can do much walking, but when there's food to be eaten there's no catching him.  
  
When I arrived at the dining hall, Bilbo was already seated in a corner, wolfing down a biscuit with another ready to go in his other hand. Several platters of little cakes and wafers were laid out on the table before him, along with two pies and a large teapot.  
  
"Bilbo, Bilbo," I said as I slid into the seat across from him. "If you keep on like this, you'll eat us all out of house and home!"  
  
"Eat you out of your home?" said Bilbo. "Never! May your kitchens never empty and your food supply never run short!" He stood and raised his cup to the empty room. "Here now, let me pour you some tea. They gave me my favorite, apple and mushroom. Though I don't see why no one else drinks it." He reached over to grab the teapot.  
  
I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the smell. "I'm glad you like the meals here, my friend, but I don't see why you need to have six of them each day," said I.  
  
"Seven when I can get them," he corrected, and poured the tea straight into my lap.  
  
* * *  
  
--Later this evening. I took my tunic down to the riverside to be washed, getting many a queer look along the way; it's been nearly eighty-five years since I last had food or drink spilled on my clothes. I do believe that was when Aragorn was a child.--  
  
Well, at least my writer's block is cured. Now I understand what Bilbo means when he talks about thoughts coming through one's hand onto paper. Physically impossible, I know, but I get the meaning of it.  
  
Speaking of Bilbo, he's down in the garden talking to a tree. That's fine with all of us, of course; it's quite natural for an elf to talk to plants, and Bilbo's always been more like the Eldar than most hobbits, or so I've heard. Only problem is, he thinks it's Aragorn.  
  
"No, no, Dunadan," the hobbit scolded. "I want you to dance, not just wave your arms about. You don't want to give us a bad name among the elven-folk when we do our little act, do you?"  
  
I smiled and called on the wind. A large gust swirled around the tree making it sway and thrash its limbs about. True, it's a bit misleading for the blind hobbit, but one must have paybacks when tea is poured into one's lap. Hopefully he won't be doing this for much longer; I've almost figured out a cure for blindness. Too bad there isn't one for being forgetful. The poor think can't even remember his last name half the time.  
  
"Good, good, Dunadan!" Bilbo was now saying. "Just wiggle your hips around a bit more and you'll do nicely."  
  
I walked down the stairway to where the hobbit was sitting. "And how are we this evening, Mr. Baggins?" asked I.  
  
Bilbo whirled about on his bench. "Why if it isn't my good friend Elrond!" He exclaimed. "I haven't seen you in weeks, laddie!"  
  
I didn't bother to correct him.  
  
"I started a journal today," I said, holding out my little book. "I was wondering if you could-"  
  
"Wonderful, wonderful!" he cried as he grabbed the diary out of my hands. He immediately opened to the first page and stuck his face down close to the letters.  
  
I cleared my throat. "As I was saying," I continued, "you are a bit more experienced in the area of journal writing than I, and if you could-"  
  
snnxxx *thud*  
  
I don't understand that hobbit. I feed him, I clothe him, I give him his own room, and just when I try to have a decent conversation he falls asleep.  
  
I bend over and pick up the snoring figure. He sighs and leans his head against my shoulder. I smile; it's such a pleasant sight to see him like this. So old, so fragile, yet so peaceful and childlike. It has been long since my children were small enough to hold in my arms, and though Bilbo would scold me for bothering to do so, I do care for him as one of my own.  
  
Trying not to wake the sleeping hobbit (though I doubt it would be possible), I reach down to grab my journal and slip it under my arm. I walk as lightly as my kind can through the starlit halls. The moon is shining beautifully tonight; the people of my house are singing in the trees of her loveliness.  
  
As I reach the door to Bilbo's bedchamber, I pause to look out over my lands. Filled with the darkness of night they are, and yet untouched by the shadow of Mordor in the south. For awhile, at least. For tonight they are safe for one old hobbit to sleep in peace.  
  
I lay Bilbo on his bed and pull his blankets up to his chin. "Goodnight, my dear friend," I whisper, and run my fingers through his thin white hair.  
  
Bilbo pushes my hand away and turns over. "Confound them Sackville- Bagginses," he mutters.  
  
Smiling, I tiptoe back to the hall and gently pull the door closed behind me. All is now silent but for Bilbo's soft snores.  
  
I turn around and once again gaze out at my country. Streams ripple to the valley floor in series of waterfalls. Trees sway in the breeze. A nightingale, alone and yet content, sings its sweet song to no single being, yet all who hear are filled with peace. Forgetting the troubles of the world, I take off, dancing over the starlit fields. For the first time in a long while, I feel free.  
  
* * *  
  
--Nearing mid-night of this same day. Estel has been gone for three months now, and I fear he will not return to my lands while I still walk in them. But he is not the only fair thing that will be missing before long. For although I hope for the coming of Estel's kingship, I have promised the hand of my daughter Arwen to none less than the lord of both Gondor and the Northern Kingdom, and Estel shall either have the title or perish; both fates are sorrowful. In one I shall lose one who is like a son to me; in the other I shall lose my daughter also. What sadness is coming to me!--  
  
I close my journal for the last time today. And what a day it's been! Spilled tea, sleeping hobbits, and wind in the trees: the little things that keep an elf lord sane. All's well that ends well, as they sometimes say, and I think this day has ended quite nicely indeed. And now it is time for me to rest. These are troubled days, what with the rising of the dark lord Sauron and the departure of my people. I am certain I will have much to do, even without a journal to write and an old hobbit to deal with, bless his little soul. Now that I think of it, maybe I should write one last thing. . .  
  
--This diary is dedicated to Mr. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. May he live the quiet, simple life he loves, until the end of his days.-- 


End file.
